Drunk
by Alternatively
Summary: If that kiss had never happened... An alternative Ron-and-Hermione get together, featuring a hangover and lots of soap (includes a little nudity and accompanying adult themes).


The early morning light streamed in through her bedroom window at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Hermione sat up against the pillows and poured herself a cup of tea.

"Good morning,"

Ron groaned and turned to blink blearily up at her. He was lying spread-eagled beside her, splayed across her bed in yesterday's pants. The bedclothes covered only sections of him, feet and ankles exposed, and the whole of one long, hairy calf. She'd been enjoying the view for a while now. Broad, scarred back, long arms, ginger stubbled jaw, delicate lashes. Dark shadows, worry lines. Long, freckly nose emitting familiar snores.

"Whu'daimissit?"

She took another sip of her tea. He'd realise soon.

"Gnnnnghh, mmm'ead'urss…"

Any second now.

"'Mione? Whu'… Why…? Whuddi _doo?"_ This ended on a moan. Hermione especially appreciated the way his colour changed, first to a mortified maroon, and then to a horrified greenish white.

"You were drunk," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. Keep the amusement and the judgment out.

He blinked at her and rubbed his eyes.

"Drunk?"

"Yes."

He gave another groan, dragging the bedclothes off her legs as he rolled onto his back, and covered his face with his hands. Then he made a series of noises that Hermione interpreted as self-flagellation and apology.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I hope you hexed me unconscious," His voice had that gravelly, just-woken-up quality to it that she especially loved. Ron, before he was awake enough to be really self-conscious. Delicious.

He'd realise in a minute.

"No hexing necessary."

He paused and blinked up at her, hands still covering the lower half of his face. He was still appalled to find himself in her bed. Clearly, no memory. Yet.

"I… didn't do anything terrible?"

It was far too tempting to play with him. She pretended to consider it.

"Well… that's a matter of perspective, I suppose. You did get terribly drunk,"

He paused.

"Yes… but I didn't… I mean I haven't…" he gave her a look, bloodshot blue eyes heavy with the idea that he might've done some unspecified dreadful thing.

"What terrible thing do you imagine you might've done?" A loaded question, but as he _hadn't_ done anything much, it seemed relatively safe. She took another sip of tea and waited.

"I- dunno… I… why aren't I wearing any clothes?"

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop from smirking.

"You're wearing pants."

"That doesn't count,"

"You were of the strong opinion at about half one this morning that pants count very much indeed,"

"What?"

He was pulling the covers up to his chin, as though suddenly feeling naked. This had the effect of exposing his knees. Hermione took another sip of tea to hide her amusement.

"When I asked you _why_ you were taking off all your clothes, you informed me, in a very _lofty_ tone, that you were _not_ removing all your clothes, because it would be _most indecorous._ " She paused, to gauge his reaction. He looked horrified, and as though he didn't quite believe her. "It seems your passive vocabulary comes into play when you're drunk. You were a tad theatrical. And a prude."

"What? _Ow!"_ He started trying to sit up, but promptly abandoned the attempt, clutching his head with pain.

"Percy and George tried to get you to leave, but they were quite drunk too, and you're difficult to shift. You really are enormous, you know,"

He rumpled his hair, and looked down at himself, then across back to her. He frowned.

"You were reading,"

She smiled and bit her lip.

"Yes, I was,"

"You were floating this big book…"

" _Arithmetical Principles in Social Change_ , yes,"

"… you looked…"

"Beautiful and brown and glowy, with magic hair. Yes, you said,"

He went pink again.

"I did?"

"Yes. And thank you, you're quite right, these are very snuggly pijamas,"

She was wearing an oversized _Holyhead Harpies_ jumper (Christmas present from Ginny), an old pair of leggings, and lurid, mismatched socks. She hadn't been in the mood for a night out, but there had been no hope of sleep until everyone was back safely, so comfort was paramount. She hadn't considered aesthetics at all and had been a bit startled to discover that Ron considered this outfit to be the 'cuddliest, snuggliest one'.

"I said that?"

"Yes. You also said you didn't want to disrupt my _academic cogitations-_ you had trouble with 'cogitations' and repeated it several times-, and that you would _slumber with the utmost quietude_ , and I'd never know you were there,"

His brows drew together at this.

"I was making fun of Percy…?"

"You were. He thought it was very funny, and kept doubling over with laughter, and suggesting more synonyms. He got quite fixated on a word which I think was supposed to be 'librocubicultarist'-"

"Eh?"

"It's pretentious slang for a person who reads in bed- anyway, George thought he was making up words, decided it was an excellent game, and got very enthusiastic. At which point you told them off for being too noisy in the 'library' and threw your trousers at them with a flourish."

"Oh god… sorry. I- I'm _really_ sorry,"

"What for? It was extremely entertaining," She suppressed a smile. If he'd remembered that much, he'd probably remember the rest.

He regarded her suspiciously.

"Where was Harry while all this was going on? He's supposed to stop me doing stupid things."

"Uh… Ginny had him pressed up against the doorjamb."

He made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

"Yes, that's more or less the same sound you made when you saw them last night. Then you told them there was no need to be ' _gratuities'_ ," She paused to enjoy his bewildered expression, "I think you meant ' _gratuitous'_. You were getting a bit muddled because George and Percy were trying to put your trousers on, one leg each. Would you like some tea?"

"Urgh, yes. Could really use some of Gin's- god, you're brilliant. Thank you,"

She waved the bottle of Ginny's special hangover potion at him, added some to the bottom of his cup, and poured the tea. Ron struggled up, wincing and moaning, and holding his head. He'd managed to drag the bedclothes up with him, and they settled in a loose ridge in front of his bare chest. Hermione was indulgently thinking this was a tantalising but unfortunate arrangement, when he started tugging the blankets down to cover his thighs, evidently distressed by the sight of his own bare legs.

She waited while he drank the tea, breathing in the steam and cupping the mug in his hands as though it were sacred.

He'd remember eventually.

He'd remember Percy saying something stupid about young lovers, and he'd remember getting annoyed.

"…no, no, no, no, _no_ , she's my _friend,_ that would be _rude,_ I can' have _feelings,_ s'not _allowed,_ you go away now, big stupid-head, go a _way_ …"

He'd remember throwing them out of the room, closing the door, and announcing very sombrely that he was drunk.

He'd remember climbing unsteadily into bed beside her, promising to be quiet as wrackspurt, and then giggling because they didn't exist.

And he'd remember that after writhing about for a minute trying to get comfortable, he'd nudged his head underneath her elbow as she turned the page of her book, and nuzzled up against her, wrapping one long arm around her as though she were a pillow. He'd been momentarily confused by the curve of her breasts and had resolved this by wriggling further down under the blankets, so his head rested against her stomach, and his feet dangled over the end of the bed. Then, heaving a fire whisky scented sigh, he'd mumbled 'love you 'Mione', and started snoring.

She'd stroked his hair and read another couple of chapters.

After that, it had been a bit uncomfortable, and she'd managed to wake him up enough to get him to shift over to the other side of the bed, so she could lie down properly and go to sleep.

It wasn't the mumbled declaration of love that she wouldn't believe until he said it sober. And it wasn't the jumbled compliments she could only believe _because_ he was drunk. None of that had stopped her from sending the lot of them to bed with a few well-placed spells. It was more the noisy whispering outside the door, and Ron's insistence that she would be waiting up for them, and then, after the knocking, the way they came in, staggering, grinning like idiots, to say good night… it was all of that, but more than anything, it was when Percy and George had Ron by the arms, trying to drag him from the room, and like a small child he went limp and whiny and sat down on the floor so they couldn't shift him, begging them to let him stay…

"… I'm so _tiyyyy-ahhhd._ I can't _sleeeeep_ without _'Mi'nee_ , I'll have _nightmares,_ don't _make_ me, I jus' wan' to _sleeeeeep,_ I have tuh know she's _safe_ , you don' under _shtand_ , they _hurt'er,_ I have to, I have to _know_ so I can _sleeep_ , I'm so _tiyy-ahhd…_ "

And they'd given up on trying to drag him out of the room, and instead started grandly apologising for their enormous little brother. That was when he'd clambered back up, grinning like a fool, retreated to the relative safety of the other side of the bed, and started taking off his clothes.

It was enlightening, she reflected, as she waited for him to finish his tea. It explained why he stayed up late all the time and why he'd taken to dozing beside her on the sofa in the afternoon. It also suggested that he was so preoccupied with fighting his own feelings, he hadn't stopped to consider hers.

"Gotta stop drinking," he said finally, staring morosely into the bottom of his cup, ginger head bowed with embarrassment. "Could've caused an accident."

She frowned.

"What do you mean?"

He let out a breath and rubbed his face again.

"Just… got a bit wild. Perce went pompous and stopped us from changing a bunch of muggle traffic signs, which is just as well. That's why we were taking the piss. He… he's a pretty good sport, I guess." He grinned suddenly. "Oh, Harry's going to feel rough today. _Big_ fight with Ginny,"

"Really? They seemed…er… amorous,"

He chuckled, a chesty rumble of amusement.

"Harry proposed. She got mad and said that he had to marry _her._ It was a whole 'no, _you're_ marrying _me_ ' thing- had to put a stop to it by telling them to marry each other."

"Good god,"

"Mmm. Then they cried and started necking."

"Glad I missed it,"

He shook his head.

"No-one ever drinks as much when you're there." He flashed a lopsided grin at her, and tried to rearrange the covers again, "Everyone wants your approval."

She had no time to reply, because at that, the door swung open, and Ginny staggered in, dragging Harry by the front of his t-shirt.

"She stole it, told you so, H'mione, how _could_ you, ugh… thank you… you're an angel…"

They both slumped across the foot of the bed, and accepted cups of tea spiked with hangover cure.

"Big night?" Hermione asked lightly.

"Don't remember _anything,_ " said Harry firmly, shooting a worried look at Ron.

"Me either," said Ginny, glaring a warning at Ron too, "Total blank. Don't like losing time. Freaks me out. Going to go sit by his grave and cry instead of pretending everything's ok,"

As this was the first time anyone had articulated the reason for the semi-regular drunken evenings, no-one knew what to say. There was a pause while they all industriously drank tea and pretended it hadn't been said.

"Might go see mum," said Ron finally, "De-gnome the garden."

An uncomfortable feeling started to descend on Hermione. She had been buoyed up, happy in the knowledge that whatever his feelings were for her, they were profound, complicated, and decidedly _not_ platonic. She'd been sitting there, drinking tea, enjoying being able to just… love him, and just… _be_ attracted to him, without pretending to herself that it was nothing… but...

He hadn't said or done anything, not really, and neither had she.

And, which was worse, he wasn't _going_ to do or say anything, _and neither was she._

Because _somehow_ , he was right. It felt _rude._ It felt impolite and disrespectful. Like the way they felt about each other shouldn't be _sullied_ by something as mediocre and mundane as… as… _sex._

"Oh my god, we're so old fashioned…" she hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"Huh?"

She couldn't shake the thought of it. It was just… so… _peculiar._ Everyone was just… _pretending_ to feel… _what_ exactly? Sort of… _conventional?_ Trying to demonstrate love and respect by clinging desperately to stereotypical versions of it? Even the drinking suddenly seemed like a completely ridiculous attempt to demonstrate love. For Fred, and for each other… as though getting horribly drunk somehow proved how sad they all were.

"This is insane," she said briskly, trying to snap herself out of it, "Look, you two might get married some day, but you're far too young and you don't _want_ to right now, and that is _absolutely_ fine. So, you can stop pretending you don't remember,"

"Er-"

"What-?"

"No, really, it's _fine,_ you love each other, and that's great, but you don't need to be your parents,"

"What? Whose parents? What?" Harry was looking like she'd just said far too many words for this early in the morning.

Ginny was frozen, cup halfway to her mouth.

"Uhhh…?"

"Think about it, the Weasleys and the Potters both married young, but that _doesn't_ mean _you_ have to. So, stop freaking out, and just get on with being revoltingly in love, it's _fine._ "

"Oh." Harry looked very sheepish. He avoided looking at Ginny by abruptly cleaning his glasses on the front of his t-shirt, half-empty mug clamped awkwardly between his knees.

Ginny let out a breath.

"Anything else you want to hit us with while we're too hung over to argue?"

Hermione bit her lip. Her heart hammered in her throat, but she still couldn't say it yet.

"You're right. We… need to find different ways to- to grieve. I know, I know, I'm not exactly a big drinker," she held up a hand to the objection Ron was about to make, "But I- I guess I've been, uh, overdoing the research a bit since…"

Harry snorted.

So perhaps she had been hiding in her books too much lately. Staying… _safe._

"And you," she rounded on Ron, and all at once realised she _still_ couldn't say it out loud.

"What have I done now?" he asked reluctantly, braced for a telling off. She suddenly saw a glimpse of him as a little kid again. It was like…

That's what it was.

They'd all been faking it for so long, pretending they had the _remotest chance_ of defeating Voldemort… they'd been pretending. Pretending to be… something other than fallible, wobbly, _childish_ humans.

It wasn't like they didn't _know_ they were all messed up and ordinary. It was more that… they'd faked it and won, and now they were all trying to fake it and be happy. Or something.

"I need a shower," she said finally, slipping off the bed and standing up, feeling awkward and self-conscious and insane, "Ron… can you… would you… you reek of alcohol. Come with me."

It had come out all wrong.

Ron made an inarticulate noise, and she tried to ignore how round and stunned Harry and Ginny's eyes were.

It was too awful to be standing there in the shocked silence. She hesitated, trying to think of something constructive to say, gave up, and left.

She was a few steps down the corridor before the jumble of voices started up from behind her closed bedroom door. It burst open, and Ron was forcibly ejected, still trying to cram himself back into yesterday's shirt.

Hermione let out a breath of relief.

"Uh… they seem to think…" he began awkwardly.

But, as he'd demonstrated last night, it was difficult to throw Ron out of a room manually unless he wanted to be thrown.

She tried to suppress a smile.

"Might still be a bit drunk," he mumbled, eyes looking near, but not at her.

 _Unbelievable_.

"No, you're not. You're never as drunk as you pretend to be. You usually drink about the same as Harry, and he's half your size."

"Uh… I drank more than usual…"

"I know. You don't normally take your clothes off and climb into bed with me. I'm just saying… you don't have to be drunk to… do that…"

He swallowed, and she felt fluttery and strange when he glanced up and met her gaze.

"That might not be a great idea," he said apologetically.

"Well, if it helps… um…" she brushed her hair back self-consciously, and discovered she was completely unable to look at him, "I… also think you're beautiful and have magic hair,"

She glanced back and was treated to the full version of Ron's lopsided grin. She bit her lip and waited while he struggled to work out what to say, rubbing the back of his neck, and chuckling nervously.

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't kidding about that shower."

There was a pause.

"But… I'm hungover… and gross… and-"

"-And yet, the idea of you covered in soap suds is…" She took a breath and closed her eyes for a moment, "…appealing…"

He froze, as though all movement had to cease while he worked out how to respond. She thought she'd been clear enough. It wasn't as though she could manage to say that the thought of him naked and soapy was sexy as hell. Or at least… she couldn't say that yet.

"Ron?"

"Yeah… uh… you realise- no, of course you do, you're not stupid- so what you're saying is- I mean you _realise_ that whatever- that it'll be, that I'll, I mean-"

"You don't have to agree. I just thought… maybe you'd like to."

He blinked at her.

"I'm starting to think you find me attractive," he said bluntly, "It's disconcerting. Are you saying we should shower _together?_ Because that would suggest I'm still asleep and dreaming."

She gazed up at him for a while.

"I can guarantee that whatever it is you fantasise about, it won't be as good as that."

He made a disbelieving noise.

"Suit yourself," she said, trying to sound relaxed about it and failing, "I guess I'm just tired of fantasy,"

She turned back down the hall, hiding her shaking hands in the cuffs of her jumper.

"You _fantasise_ about…. Am _I_ in your-"

"Stop being deliberately dense," she said flatly, confidence failing as she walked away.

There was a string of disbelieving expletives.

She opened the bathroom door and went to stand beside the bath. The room was bathed in pale morning light, dust motes swirling. She cast a warming charm.

Ron stood in the doorway, head ducked to fit, scruffy, stubbly, dark shadowed and bewildered.

There was no point trying to talk it out. This would either be a total relief, or utterly humiliating.

She took a resolute breath, turned away again, and pulled her jumper and top off, tugging to free the wild snarl of her hair.

"Merlin's- you're serious!"

The door clunked shut, and she heard him lock it.

"Hermione, what the hell's going on? Are you ok?"

 _Typical_.

She couldn't help huffing with irritation, suddenly feeling very exposed. How on earth had she ended up here? Standing topless in the bathroom, glaring at the tile, terrified of turning around to see his face.

The sheer idiocy of the situation enraged her. She had clearly lost her mind.

"Either take your clothes off and get in the damn shower, or get out," It came out sharper than she'd intended, bitter and caustic.

Not cut out for seduction, evidently.

The silence soaked into her skin.

If only she'd kept her mouth shut.

If only she hadn't _thought_ about it.

If only she'd- _what?_ What would've been better? To hang around waiting for _him_ to make a move? That was clearly never going to happen. Might've been better to pick a time without witnesses, sure, and maybe a day when he wasn't hung over, or maybe a day when she wasn't feeling quite so volatile… or at least not make the truly _daft_ decision to take her top off, or failing that, to at least not screech orders at him like a half-naked lunatic-

There was the small, soft sound of fabric dropping to the floor, and the large freckled back she'd been admiring earlier came into view as he stepped past her and over the edge of the bath.

He was angled away from her, fumbling with the taps and flinching as the cold water hit him…

Hermione covered her face with her hands.

She was staring at Ron Weasley's naked arse.

Even in her own head, it was hard to admit that that was… very nice.

He was adjusting the temperature, rubbing his arms, water starting to run in rivulets across his skin, droplets flecked across his back… and he was fiddling with one of the little taps that ran with liquid soaps.. this one was lemon grass and something or other, a crisp fresh smell to go with the steam…

"'Mione? I'm starting to feel like an idiot- you just going to stand there?"

 _Good question._

She paused, screwing up courage, stripped off the rest of her clothes and stepped over the edge of the bath, in behind him.

She heard the sharp intake of breath.

She placed a hesitant hand on his back, so he would know exactly where she was, and leaned past him to fill her hand with soap.

The string of muttered profanities told her he knew what she was about to do before she did it.

As she ran sudsy hands across his shoulders, his swearing increased in creativity, and she stepped in closer, warm spray from the shower catching her forearms and legs.

He turned suddenly, dripping, and lobster red, and put one long warm arm around her and pulled her in close, against the side of his hot wet chest, his back to the showerhead.

"You're mental," he grumbled, "And I'm probably dead or hallucinating. And if I'm not dead I'm about to die of heart failure because _you're not wearing any clothes."_

Hermione put her arms around him and leaned into his side, studiously ignoring the whole sort of _penis area._ That seemed much too complicated a thing to even contemplate, and to judge from the way he was holding her- lightly and carefully- he was also avoiding noticing things.

But there were definitely things to notice.

He shuffled, pulling her further into the flow of the water, and somehow it all seemed… _normal._ Hermione felt some of the tension evaporate.

"Fuck."

"What? Did you get soap in your eyes?"

Ron was wiping his face with his free hand.

"No… no it's just…" He made a little annoyed sound and wrapped his other arm around her too, hand on the side of her face, nose buried in her hair.

She heard herself sigh and she leant more heavily against him, rubbing her cheek against his wet chest, trying not to think about her own naked body.

"I'm really sorry," He said quietly.

"What for?"

He paused again, and she could tell he was thinking.

"Ron?"

"I didn't realise I was making you miserable too."

She pulled away slightly to look up at him.

The closest word she could think of to describe his expression was 'chagrined'.

He gently pushed her hair out of her face with one big wet hand.

"Fuck."

"What? Ron? You're making me anxious, what's wrong?"

"Nothing! It's not- _fuck_. You never smile any more. And before you argue, smirking and grimacing don't count. If I'd known all I had to do was touch you…" He trailed off. There was something haunted and sad about him now.

"What?"

But she knew exactly what he was thinking. She saw the thought form, the question his eyebrow asked, and she slipped her arms up around his neck as he ducked his head down to kiss her.

She knew what he meant now, too. She _was_ smiling. She couldn't help it. And he was grinning, and kissing her, and he picked her up, and it was a bit slippery so she wrapped her legs around his waist automatically, and the spike of panic about it was immediately swamped by the delirium of his mouth on hers.

He turned, so that the water cascaded onto them from the side, and she found herself clinging and trying to stop from slipping, and he did the obvious thing and pulled her up, a hand under her upper thigh. She saw the panic dart across his face when he realised where his hand was, and she couldn't help laughing and leaning in to kiss him again.

"For the record, my fantasies don't even come close," He said as she unwrapped herself and slid down to stand, slipping against parts of him she was still diligently ignoring. "Never crossed my mind you'd order me to strip. Then again, you've always been bossy," He was grinning down at her, tired eyes sparking with amusement. His hands were still stroking her shoulders and back, and the side of her face, and her hair, and she found herself leaning into his hands, moving like a cat demanding to be stroked.

Hermione examined the little row of soap taps.

"I think we need more soap," she said, trying to sound light and breezy. She smoothed her soapy hands down her own front, and then began slathering soap across his chest, heart beating wildly at the blatant invitation she'd just issued.

Ron started swearing again, claimed her soapy hands and turned her around so she was facing away from him.

"If we're talking soapy fantasies," he mumbled, leaning over her shoulder and slipping his arms around her waist, "You need to be facing this way, so I can really see what I'm doing…"


End file.
